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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29609925">All But Married</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beini/pseuds/Beini'>Beini</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, My poor attempts at humor, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Rare Pair, Slice of Life, Sugawara Koushi-centric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:33:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29609925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beini/pseuds/Beini</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Oikawa and Sugawara can face anything that life throws at them, as long as they do it together. Or, the highs and lows of their 30th year of life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oikawa Tooru/Sugawara Koushi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1月1日</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It’s been a hot sec since I dabbled in the hq fandom but I unearthed this outline from the depths of my drafts and decided to try to rewrite it. </p><p>I’m vaguely aware of the newer characters that have been added as well as everyone’s jobs post time-skip, however I’m electing to ignore those jobs and create my own haha. The newer characters may or may not pop up but it will probably be mostly OCs. Please show a bit of leniency if my characterizations are somewhat outdated. </p><p>Not beta’d so please forgive (and feel free to point out) any typos</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Happy New Year!” Asahi slurs in his ear. Sugawara grunts in surprise as he is lifted into the air from behind. Their coworker, Fujioka, tried to cut Asahi off after the fourth drink but somehow he kept finding new glasses of sake despite his abysmal tolerance for alcohol. Suga, on the other hand, is entirely too sober for this rowdy crowd, as he has come to accept the fact that he’s not as young as he used to be. The drinks that used to only put him out of commission for an hour or two at most now kept him knocked flat on his back for half the day if he isn’t careful. </p><p>After being released, Suga turns to Asahi to give him a proper hug. His cheeks feel hot against Suga’s. </p><p>“Happy New Year, you drunkard!” </p><p>Asahi hangs his entire weight on Suga, causing them to stumble. “You haven’t changed one bit since high school, Suga! Still so catty. It’s a new year! And I am an adult—” He enunciates the words overly careful, as if that would prove that he isn’t as drunk as he is. “—and I can have a drink or two if I want!”</p><p>“A drink or two, or three or four,” continues Suga. He cranes his neck to search the room, then proceeds to lie through his teeth. “Sachiko is looking for you.” </p><p>Asahi perks up at the mention of his fiancé and leaps back into the crush of bodies occupying the space in Yahaba’s living room. “‘Chiko!” </p><p>Over the excited chatter of the general party, Suga can hear the whistling crackle and boom of fireworks going off all over the neighborhood and people cheering. A hand taps him on the shoulder and Suga turns to see Fujioka herself with an amused expression on her face, no doubt having witnessed the end results of her instigation.  </p><p>“Happy New Year, Suga!” Fujioka Kaori, his senior at the Osaka University of Arts, teaches the upper level architecture courses to Suga’s oil painting. On his second day of work, she observed him eating alone at the cafeteria and took it upon herself to make introductions and show Suga the ropes. Five years later she has become one of his closest friends in Osaka and his saving grace at the university. </p><p>“And a very Happy New Year to you too, Fujioka.” </p><p>Fujioka sticks out her lower lip, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “<em>Kaori</em>, Suga, I know your mouth can make those sounds. Say it with me, <em> Ka-o-ri</em>.” </p><p>“I’ve called you Fujioka for five years. Why break tradition now?”</p><p>“Stubborn bastard,” she huffs. “Whoo! Well I’m probably going to head out soon, it’s way past this old woman’s bed time.” </p><p>“Oh please, Fujioka, you’re barely 35, plus you look even younger,” Suga protests. </p><p>Fujioka gathers her hair and flings it over one shoulder. “Hm, you’re right. Sometimes I just like to hear you tell me how attractive I am. Getting compliments from you is like drawing blood from a stone.” </p><p>“That horrible personality of yours is the reason why you’ll never find a husband,” says Suga, matter-of-fact. </p><p>She socks him in the arm hard enough to sting. “I don’t see you going out of your way to find a wife.” Knowing full well that he’s in a relationship with Oikawa, her constant nagging about him finding a wife has become somewhat of an inside joke. </p><p>Suga catches Oikawa’s gaze across the room where the latter is engaged in conversation with Yahaba’s boyfriend.  “I have everything I need.”</p><p>“Ugh, you two are disgusting. I’ll take a good bottle of Shochu over love any day. Anyway, I’m out of here. See you on Tuesday?”</p><p>“With bells and whistles on,” Suga agrees. She gives him one parting hug before going to search for her jacket. </p><p>Suga makes his way onto the balcony, letting the cold air fill his lungs. Multi-colored fireworks burst like stars into the inky blackness of the otherwise devoid sky, and leave plumes of smoke in their wake upon fizzling out. Down below, children chase each other with hand-held sparklers under the watchful eyes of their parents, their bright laughter just barely audible above the music coming from within. Osaka seems to swell with anticipation of another year and all that it will bring. </p><p>He shivers as a gust of wind cuts past his clothes. The patio door opens and a familiar warm presence settles next to him.</p><p>“What’s a handsome man like you doing out here all alone on New Year’s?”</p><p>When they are this close, Suga can smell the remnants of that cloying cologne that Oikawa is so fond of. Playing along, Suga sighs. “The guy I came with spent the whole night talking to other people and left me to fend for myself.” </p><p>“How neglectful of him,” Tooru mourns. “Maybe I could warm you up in his place?” </p><p>Suga burst out laughing, unable to hold it in any longer. “God, Tooru, that was so corny! Did your grandpa teach you that line?”</p><p>Oikawa just smiles down at him. “Happy new year, Koushi.” </p><p>Suga is suddenly seized with the urgent need to kiss Oikawa, to reach up and feel those angular cheekbones beneath his palms and the press of his lips against Suga’s. Instead, he takes a step sideways so that their arms press up against one another. </p><p>“Take me home, Tooru,” he says. </p><p>“Tired already?”</p><p>“No,” Suga disagrees. He derives a particular pleasure in being the one to knock Oikawa off balance, smiling as he flushes faintly. Oikawa turns to head back inside, but not before glancing back over his shoulder with an expression on his face that Suga can read as if it were written in plain Japanese. <em> Come home then. </em> </p><p>Suga follows close behind him. </p><p>Oikawa is the one to inform Yahaba that they are going home. </p><p>“Boo, so early? C’mon Oikawa, the night is still young!” </p><p>“Ah, but Kou-chan is tired! Just look at him, he’s about to fall over.” </p><p>Obligingly, Suga slumps against the nearest wall, placing the back of his wrist against his forehead. </p><p>“Fine, you rickety old men, go home. I’ll see you at work, Oikawa.”</p><p>Suga scoops up both of their coats where they had been flung over the back of a dining room chair and holds out Oikawa’s for him. Once the apartment door closes, the music fades, and Oikawa and Suga are alone.</p><p>They go home.</p><p>Silence greets the two of them as Suga unlocks the door. Not even bothering to turn on the lights, Oikawa slumps over to the couch and flings his head over the back with a groan. Suga leaves his shoes in the genkan before strolling over to climb into Oikawa’s lap. Like this, he manages to be just a hair taller than Oikawa, who normally towers over Suga. He brushes back Oikawa’s bangs with a careful hand. </p><p>“Even the king of extroversion has his limits, huh.”</p><p>“I didn’t have my usual energy bunny by my side to keep me company.” </p><p>Suga’s nose wrinkles. “Hm, weak set up and delivery, four out of ten.”</p><p>“Have mercy on me,” Oikawa whines. “It’s past my bedtime—oh, Kou-chan, let’s go lucky bag shopping tomorrow!” </p><p>“I was hoping to sleep in …” </p><p>“Please~ I know you love the Pokémon bags.” </p><p>Suga pretends to consider the suggestion even though the minute Oikawa suggested it Suga knew he would say yes. He’s always been particularly terrible at denying Oikawa. </p><p>“ … I guess we can go—” Oikawa lets out a little cheer. “—but we’ll have to get up early if we want to get anything good.” </p><p>“I’ll set my alarm right now.” Even as he reaches for his phone, Oikawa’s eyelids are beginning to droop. Suga does it for him, frowning when the phone locks him out. </p><p>“Did you change your password?”</p><p>“Uh huh. Yahaba figured it out again. Birthday.” It’s uncreative for Oikawa, who tends to take his phone security very seriously, but Suga puts in Oikawa’s birthday. Again, the phone locks him out. Suga almost rouses Oikawa, then thinks, and—after a moment’s hesitation—enters his own birthday. The phone unlocks. </p><p>“Sap,” he murmurs, and sets a painfully early alarm. “Come on. Up, up. You’ll be grumpy if I let you fall asleep without showering.” </p><p>It takes all of Suga’s strength to pull Oikawa from the couch. They shower separately–it would take much, <em> much </em> longer if they did together–and prepare for bed. “We’re almost out of shampoo,” says Oikawa while Suga brushes his teeth. He spits the foamy mixture into the sink and rinses with a cup of water.</p><p>“I’ll add it to the list.” </p><p>Oikawa takes his sweet time while Suga waits up in bed for him, and doesn’t leave the bathroom until almost one o’clock. Under the heavy duvet, Suga’s legs jerk as Oikawa presses his frigid toes into Suga’s calves. </p><p>“Tooru,” he grumbles in warning. </p><p>“Just until they’re warm.” </p><p>It’s what Oikawa always says even though his cold extremities end up leeching warmth from Suga all night long. He resigns to his fate as a kotatsu and finally passes out. </p>
<hr/><p>Predictably, Oikawa whinges and whines about waking up early the next morning until Suga plies him with enough coffee to energize an elephant, then he’s all smiles on the way to the subway station. Namba Park is a thirty minute train ride on the Nankai line, a line that neither Suga nor Oikawa take very often, so Suga uses the opportunity to watch downtown Osaka whiz by out of the train car window. Oikawa opts to stand, looming over Suga with a careless hand thrown over the overhead handle for balance.</p><p>Cold permeates the window behind Suga’s head, sending a chill down the sliver of skin left exposed by his jacket; he shivers, flexes his chilled fingers and ticks them between his thighs. </p><p>Oikawa notices the gesture and clicks his tongue. “Koushi, where are your gloves?” </p><p>“In my other coat. I’ll be fine,” he dismisses. “We’ll be inside most of the time anyway.” </p><p>Oikawa ignores this assurance and strips off his own gloves, handing them to Suga. “Here.” </p><p>Suga doesn’t bother pressing the issues further and accepts the gloves, thumbing the supple leather before slipping them on. Slowly, the residual body heat warms him up. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it.” </p><p>The subway car becomes more and more crowded as they get closer to their destination. A girl and her akita squeeze in next to Suga, the dog’s curled tail whacking Oikawa’s ankle with every wag. It lets out a sharp bark and she hushes it, ordering it to sit. It does so, nearly on Oikawa’s foot but Oikawa only looks down at it with a smile. </p><p>“<em>Daichi, </em>” the girl admonishes, sounding embarrassed. She nudges his flank with the steel-toed tip of her combat boot. “Please excuse me, Daichi’s spatial awareness isn’t the best.” Oikawa and Suga both smirk at the mention of the dog’s name. </p><p><em> Daichi huh? There’s a name I haven't heard in a while. When was the last time I spoke to Sawamura Daichi anyway? Way too long, probably</em>. </p><p>Daichi chose to stay in Miyagi when Suga moved to Osaka, not that he expected Daichi to follow him, but, separated by time and distance, they eventually just lost touch. The four of them met up once, right after Suga finished his MFA, he, Daichi, Asahi and Kiyoko, and it was nice. They talked about mundane things: the weather, Hinata and Kageyama’s success in their respective sports careers. But, in between the extended silences and many instances of accidentally cutting each other off, it became clear that all of their little group of four had fallen out of sync. </p><p>It was a stroke of sheer luck, or maybe divine intervention, that Asahi moved into the same apartment complex as he and Tooru, and that they were able to reconnect. </p><p>Suga asks to pet Daichi-the-dog, and also sneaks a picture of him to text to Asahi. </p><p> </p><p>[7:56] his name is Daichi, LOL</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, they reach Namba station, and exit with the flood of people, some of which no doubt heading in the same direction as he and Oikawa. The shopping mall doors haven’t even opened yet and there is already a line wrapping around the building. Suga rises to his toes to try to see where it ends, but can’t see over the crush of people. By the locked glass doors, a worker dressed in a pretty navy blue and red uniform announces into a microphone that the mall will open in thirty minutes. </p><p>“Yikes,” Suga says with a whistle. “Still want to wait?” </p><p>“Might as well, right? We’ve already spent the money on subway tickets. I’m sure once the doors open the line will start to move quickly.” </p><p>“I guess,” replies Suga. </p><p>He tights his scarf and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Oikawa, on the other hand, appears completely at ease in the cold, in the wool coat that Oikawa bought him two years ago and a pair of slim earmuffs. </p><p>Suga has long since accepted that people are simply drawn to Oikawa in a way that they aren’t to him. His long legs and easy smile tend to catch the attention of anyone in their vicinity, and Suga is always seen second if they even see him at all. Suga isn’t the jealous type, either, but it helps that Oikawa always seems to be neutral at best to the attention, other than the occasional instance of using it to his advantage. </p><p>So it’s no surprise that a few heads turn as they make their way to the back of the line, including a gaggle of university-age young women whispering to each other while staring ostentatiously. </p><p>Oikawa ruffles Suga’s hair. “You know, I think you’re the least cute when you pout,” he says.</p><p>Suga slaps his sternum with the back of his hand. “Ass.” </p><p>One of the university students gathers up the courage to approach them and addresses Oikawa without so much as a spare glance in Suga’s direction. </p><p>“Excuse me, I think I’ve seen you around campus before. Did we take Professor Kamiya’s Intro to Civics together?” </p><p>Seeing as Oikawa studied bioengineering in grad school and completed his studies three years ago, probably not. However—despite what people tend to believe due to either their first impressions of Oikawa or their memories of who he used to be—he tends to be the nicer between the two of them. So he spends the next fifteen deftly redirecting the university student’s flimsy attempts at a flirtation towards an entirely platonic discussion about what they plan to purchase once the mall opens. Eventually, she excuses herself, cheeks glowing faintly with embarrassment, and scurries back to her friends. </p><p>“I don’t know how you do it, Tooru. I would have told her to piss off five minutes ago.”</p><p>“Doubtful.” Finally, the line begins to shuffle forwards.</p><p>“Maybe,” Suga concedes. “But you’re so <em> nice </em> about it. After so many instances of it happening, I’d lose my patience.” </p><p>“Jealous?” Oikawa teases. Suga glares at him. “Ahaha, such a scary look, Kou-chan.” He’s quiet for a moment, then. “Nice is easy. Being nice is just a matter of enacting the right social customs at the right moments, and playing along with the rules of propriety. Kou-chan is more than nice; he’s kind, which is exceedingly rare and much more valuable.” </p><p>In public, Suga tries not to stare, having been warned by a reputable source that he looks like a lovesick fool when he does, but sometimes, when he feels the overwhelming impulse to kiss Oikawa, staring is what he must content himself with. Having watched his own parents’ love wither and dissolve into a reluctant partnership riddled with cold shoulders, tersely exchanged words, and slammed doors, Suga holds a healthy amount of fear of all the ways in which time could warp their relationship in a similar fashion. </p><p> Yet somehow, without knowing his fears, Oikawa continues to convince Suga of the exact opposite. Suga finds his affection grows with each passing hour and day. And it is not the painful love of Shakespearean tragedies, doomed from the start to burn hot and and extinguish fast, but a comfortable love. Oikawa’s warmth does not scorch the desert, but coaxes flowers to bloom. </p><p>Only under threat of death would Suga admit any of this out loud though, lest Oikawa’s ego grow to truly unmanageable levels, so he returns Oikawa poking barbs with jabs of his own, and saves his kisses for later. </p><p>“Okay, angst-lord, calm down.” </p><p>Oikawa shakes his head. “You bare your soul to a guy and this is how he rewards you.”</p><p>Suga pinches his waist but the effect is diminished somewhat by the layers of wood and cotton. Oikawa’s lips twitch at the corners into the barest suggestion of a smile but otherwise, he doesn’t react. Suga’s fingers tingle with the need to take Oikawa’s hand, so he stuffs them back into the pockets of his coat. There will be time for that later. </p><p>People always seem to leave a bit of their common courtesy at the door when lucky bag shopping, and Suga quickly resolves to try harder to deny Oikawa if he asks them to do this again next year. Two-thirds of the population swarming the stores are under twenty-year-olds who couldn’t care less if they stepped on the back of someone’s heel or snatched a bag from beneath someone’s fingers. The remaining third are older women on the hunt for a good deal who can be just as vicious as the teenagers. </p><p>Suga manages to scoop up one medium-sized Pokémon bag not five minutes before they run out, while Oikawa snags a large. The clothing stores are only a hair less chaotic, although Suga doesn’t care for fashion as much as Oikawa does. He spends an endless amount of time deciding between two outwardly identical bags as if he can divine their contents from feel alone. They repeat this process in three other stores before Oikawa is satisfied with his bounty, </p><p>Suga takes a bag from him. “Takeout for lunch?”</p><p>“We still have some leftovers from the other night,” Oikawa reminds him. </p><p>“I don’t want leftovers.”</p><p>“I’ll make something then,” says Oikawa. </p><p>“Oden?” Suga suggests.</p><p>“Whatever you want.” </p><p>While waiting for the elevator, they run into their downstairs neighbor and landlord, Tamashiro-san, and her scruffy dog. </p><p>“Hello Oikawa-kun, Sugawara-kun. Done a bit of shopping, I see! Taking advantage of those lucky bag prices?”</p><p>“Please, Tamashiro-san, I’ve told you to call me Tooru.” </p><p>She titters and slaps his arm. “Oh, it wouldn’t be appropriate! Say, my niece just moved to Osaka and she’s around your age. I think you two would get on so well, how about I introduce you?” </p><p>In addition to renting apartments, Tamashiro-san fancies it her second job to play match-maker.</p><p>Oikawa gives his usual, practiced response with a theatrically regretful sigh. “I’m married to my work. I wouldn’t be able to give a nice young lady the proper attention she deserves.” </p><p>Tamashiro-san laughs and slaps his arm again. The elevator seems to be taking an exceptionally long time to come. “Well, if a handsome man like you can’t find a wife, then surely there’s no hope for the rest of us! Should you change your mind though …”</p><p>“—You’ll be the first to know,” Oikawa assures. </p><p>The thirty second ride up to the fifth floor can’t come any faster. Tamashiro-san means well, she’s certainly an excellent and fair landlady, but her penchant for sticking her nose in other people’s lives most often comes off as more overbearing instead of the well-intentioned acts she no doubt imagines it to be. Thankfully, Suga and Oikawa only tend to run into her a few times a month, including every first Friday of the month when rent is due. </p><p>On her floor, Tamashiro-san forces her scruffy dog to wave at them with one tapered paw, and it takes everything within Suga not to laugh at the beleaguered expression on its face.</p><p>Oikawa doesn’t even have to look at Suga to know that he’s seconds from bursting. “Don’t start,” he says, once the elevator doors close. </p><p>“It’s a small wonder that that dog doesn’t enact some sort of violent revenge and gnaw her face off in her sleep,” chimes Suga.</p><p>“He certainly always looks as if he’s on the verge of doing just that.”</p><p>Suga muffles his giggles into Oikawa’s shoulder. “Poor thing probably prays to be put out of its misery.” </p><p>“Dark, Kou-chan. Are you going to save him?” </p><p>Suga makes a face. “I’m more of a cat person.” </p><p>While Oikawa prepares to make the Oden, Suga puts their things away. He is tempted to open his own bag now but knows Oikawa will be pouty if he does it without him, so Suga sets all of them down by their bedroom closet. He also digs out Oikawa’s favorite cooking apron on his way back to the kitchen—the one that has baby pink lettuce frills around the edges and strawberries printed on the chest—and settles into one of their two dining room chairs. To call their kitchen small is being overly generous, with two gas burners, a couple of cabinets, and just enough counter space to fit a wooden cutting board, so Suga tries to stay out of Oikawa’s way when he cooks. </p><p>“Koushi can you get my—” Oikawa turns to see the apron already in his hand. “Oh, yes, thank you.” After tying off the apron, he starts with the daikon, peeling away the pale green skin with his chef’s knife and cutting it into half-moons while the water boils. </p><p>“Do you have any resolutions for this year?” Suga asks from his place at the dining table. </p><p>“Resolutions?” Oikawa repeats. He hums thoughtfully. “Like giving Kou-chan more kisses?” </p><p>“Be serious.” </p><p>“I am serious! Making sure you get enough kisses is one of my top priorities and I don’t think I quite met last years quota.” </p><p>“<em>Tooru</em>,” Suga laughs. </p><p>Oikawa is quiet for a moment as he moves on to preparing the flat and round satsuma-age. “There’s a promotion available at work, and I want it to be mine.” </p><p>“That’s a worthy goal.” Once Oikawa puts something within his sights there is very little that can stand in his way, so he’s almost certain to get the promotion; the question is how far will he go to get what he wants. </p><p>“What about Kou-chan? Any special resolutions for this year?” </p><p>Suga thinks back to last night and how, in the shower, he couldn’t help but notice the pockets of fat building up around his thighs and hips, and the newly formed stretch marks where his stomach was beginning to peak over his waist. Once he stopped playing volleyball after undergrad, the amount of time spent dedicated to exercise fell by the wayside in favor of caffeine-fueled late nights toiling over his portfolio or helping Oikawa with his doctoral dissertation; but, up until last night, Suga hadn’t thought he’d gained so much weight that it was noticeable. </p><p>“Maybe I’ll buy a gym membership and start working out again.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Updates will probably come slowly because I’m working on other stuff in tandem with this, but this will be finished. hmu on <a href="https://twitter.com/beiniiiii">twitter</a> if you want</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2月8日</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>slight tw for workplace harassment but nothing graphic, just an asshole being an asshole</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As a university professor, Sugawara experiences life in waves. It ebbs and flows with the seasons, spring and summer a dizzying flurry of demands so endless that it threatens to drown him, only for the tsunami to recede come the summer and winter months, depositing a sleep deficit bigger than the Japanese economy’s in its wake. During those months he is also plagued by the intrusive, persistent need to be productive when gifted so much free time while also being denied the motivation and energy to do so. </p><p>What he can do however, is cook.</p><p>Tooru’s schedule is much more constant. Everyday he wakes up at 6:00 am, is out the door by 7:15 to arrive at his lab by 8:00 am. He tries to leave work by 5:30 pm but almost inevitably gets held up by an intern or chatty coworker and just manages to catch the 6:40 pm train out of Nishi-Umeda station to cross their front door again at half past 7. During the winter months, he likes to joke that he forgets what their apartment looks like during the day time, but this has been his routine every week for three years. He always showers at night so that he doesn’t have to do so in the morning, and almost always buys lunch because neither he nor Suga have the time to make it, plus he can afford it.</p><p>But breakfast is non-negotiable. So Suga drags himself out of bed at 5:30 am, bleary-eyed and still half asleep, and cooks a hearty meal for the two of them that is finished by the time Oikawa has finished primping in the bathroom. </p><p>Suga’s alarm wakes them both but he’s quick to smother it, as well as push Oikawa back into the pillows when he tries to sit up.</p><p>“Go back to sleep,” he whispers. </p><p>Oikawa is unconscious again before Suga crosses the doorway. Suga brushes his teeth, chugs some water to chase away the after-sleep dryness, and starts with the rice. Although he isn’t the best at cooking, he does enjoy this. Daytime brings the sun, and all of the thoughts that come with it. Between worrying about his students, fabricating lesson plans, maintaining his social media presence and plotting out commissions, his brain has no room left for himself. </p><p>In his and Oikawa’s tiny kitchen, surrounded by that specific type of early-morning pre-light, there is nothing vying for his attention. All that Suga has to focus on is cutting up vegetables and stirring soup. </p><p>At 6:00 am, Oikawa’s alarm rings throughout their apartment. Two minutes later, a pair of hands make their home under Suga’s t-shirt while he’s seasoning the salmon. </p><p>Oikawa pushes his face into Suga’s neck. “Good morning.” </p><p>Suga shivers, and only briefly does he consider the merits of 6am blowjobs, but he considers it nonetheless; something about Oikawa’s voice just after he wakes up never fails to reach inside Suga and <em> pull</em>. “Morning.” </p><p>Oikawa presses his lips to Suga’s temple, then cranes his neck in an attempt to reach Suga’s lips. He elbows Oikawa in the ribs. “No way, your breath smells. Go makeout with a toothbrush then get back to me.” </p><p>Suga has left cooking the fish for last so that it would be fresh. It hisses and pops upon meeting the oil in the pan and, when Suga goes to flip it, he almost drops the spatula. He frowns at his left wrist, which feels untethered and weak, like his tendons suddenly decided to stop cooperating. He flexes it back and forth a few times and tries again only for the spatula to clatter against the edge of the pan and nearly falls into the cooking fire. He gasps lowley and lunges to shut off the flame.</p><p>“I heard that.” Oikawa’s voice is faint from the bathroom. “You okay?”</p><p>“Fine,” answers Suga. He shakes his hand out to dispel some of the staticky numbness, reignites the flame, and finishes tending to the fish. When Oikawa reenters the living room, dressed in his usual pressed slacks and neutral button down shirt, breakfast is just about finished. Hidden by the pleated hem of his pants are the only spot of color Oikawa allows himself, a pair of ankle length socks with red, blue and yellow puzzle pieces stitched into the fabric. His tie remains slung over his broad shoulders. </p><p>“Need help?” </p><p>“No I got it.” Suga slides the first fish onto a plate, then the second. He curses Oikawa in his mind for putting the bowls so high up in the cabinets when he has to rise on his toes to reach them. </p><p>Oikawa bumps him out of the way with his hip and begins to fluff the rice with their jade green paddle, pressing it into two bowls. “Kou-chan cooked such a delicious meal for me, the least I can do is help set the table.”</p><p>“Then why’d you bother asking if you were gonna do it anyway?” Suga grumbles. Just as he’s setting down the bowls of miso soup he loses his grip again, fumbles one, causing the hot liquid to splatter across the table. Some of it catches his hand. </p><p>“Oh!” Oikawa hurries to right the bowl in the next second. “Koushi, are you sure you’re okay?”  Suga doesn’t miss the way his gaze lingers on Suga’s left hand as he shakes it out again to return some of the feeling to his fingers. </p><p>“Yeah, just clumsy. Take my bowl, I’ll go get some more.” </p><p>Suga can feel Oikawa’s stare penetrating into his back but he ignores it, because he’s fine. Really. He probably just slept on his hand funny. </p><p>“I’m going grocery shopping today, do you need anything?” asks Suga once both of them have their meals.</p><p>“I’ll text you a list.” </p><p>When Suga cooks, Oikawa insists on washing the dishes even though it almost makes him late. After pecking Suga on the lips, he hurries out the door and Suga is alone. </p><p>He has three commissions that he’s been putting off for all of January in the face of grading final projects and keeping his advisées from having existential breakdowns over their art. His agent, Himiko, managed to sell four of his pieces last semester, so between those and Oikawa’s income it’s not like they’re hurting for money, but it’d be nice to have a little extra padding in his savings. </p><p>One of the perks of being an art professor is that he has permission to use the studios whenever he pleases, and over spring break he doesn’t have to worry about competing with students for space. His makeshift home studio quickly became unfeasible, what with the noxious paint fumes choking the small space and Suga’s idiosyncratic habits driving Oikawa up the wall. He even offered to rent a studio space for Suga, a sure sign that they were going to come to blows if something didn’t change soon.</p><p>Suga spent two years lugging his unwieldy art portfolio case through four different subway transfers before conceding that perhaps his frugal stubbornness had become more trouble than it was worth. Back then, it took Suga a long time to snap out of what his friends called his “starving-artist” mindset. From his first day of undergrad until he was awarded his MFA, Suga took painstaking steps to never live beyond his means. </p><p>He had a scholarship that covered tuition and, before moving in with Oikawa, lived with three other roommates to keep his rent low. He prepared all of his meals at home using ingredients bought just before their “best-by” date because his local grocery store sold them at a discount. His friends teased him about being a boring shut-in, a nickname which Suga bore with resigned acceptance, but the truth was that as much as he craved the ritual interactions of shouting at each other over too-loud music and pitchers of bottom-shelf beer, he just couldn’t afford it. </p><p>Even after selling his first high-end piece, and several more after that, Suga could never quite shake the ominous feeling that his success was temporary. That somewhere down the line someone had made a mistake, that they would find out that he was a fraud and demand their money back, and the life he had built atop that precarious house of cards would come crumbling down. </p><p>Long story short, it took Suga nearly dropping a very expensive commission in the sliver of space between the subway platform and train car to finally spring the money for a car, and even then he opted for a used 2012 Prius so that he wouldn’t have monthly car payments hanging over his head. </p><p>Grudgingly, Suga admits that his Prius has its advantages. </p><p>Suga takes the more indirect route to Osaka University of Arts that has him hugging the curves of the city center on a six lane highway. Osaka traffic leaves much to be desired, a twenty-minute journey could run you an hour if you were clueless enough to try and drive right through the city center, but it could be worse; it could be Tokyo. He parks by the post office where he doesn’t have to pay the meter and walks the remaining half kilometer to campus. </p><p>For a university who prided itself on fostering an environment dedicated to artistic growth and development, Osaka U-of-A’s main building is, in Suga’s humble opinion, hilariously unappealing. Sure, the inside is filled with the obligatory we’re-an-art-school-and-you-need-to-know-it amount of sculptures and paintings, mostly replicas of pieces from well-known alumni, and the classrooms catch the afternoon light in all of the appropriate ways, though you would never know that from the outside. </p><p>But the main building, which houses all but the graphic design and animation departments, is constructed of two cement rectangles stacked on top of one another in a feat that Suga imagines took little creativity. If not for the metal signage, it could be mistaken for a coal factory, complete with a chimney and soot-like dirt dripping down the façade. Suga supposes there really isn’t a <em> need </em> for an art school to be more pleasing to the eye than any other university. Then again, if life were just about needs instead of wants, Suga probably wouldn’t have the job he does. </p><p>To this day, Fujioka complains that it’s an embarrassment for an architect to teach in a building that’s such an eyesore to which Suga always replies, <em> do something about it then</em>. Fujioka just laughs, bright and amused, as if Suga were naive for even suggesting it, and says <em> oh honey, this university could never afford me</em>. </p><p>Suga isn’t expecting to run into anyone. Most professors take spring break as an opportunity to stay as far away from campus as possible, so he’s surprised to cross Nishiara Ichiro on his way to the studio. The back of his neck prickles with cold sweat. </p><p>“Suga!” Nishihara is so damn pleased to see Suga. </p><p>He returns Nishihara’s broad grin with a thin smile of his own. “Hello Nishihara-san.” </p><p>“On your way to the studios, I imagine? It wouldn’t do to let our skills fall to the wayside from disuse!” He laughs at his own joke as if it’s being told by someone else. </p><p>Suga hopes that his curt answer will deter Nishihara from continuing on. “Yes.” </p><p>“My sacral chakra is most fruitful in the morning so I like to get out early. There’s just something about that light after dawn that really <em> speaks </em> to me, you know?” </p><p><em> Sacral chakra, what a prick</em>. <em> Does he even do yoga? </em> </p><p>Nishihara Ichiro heads the photography department and sits on the school’s board of directors. Nishihara Ichiro is also a walking, talking cliché. He’s a fantastic photographer with an impeccable eye for composition and a keen sense of timing, <em> kairos </em> he calls it. Students sing nothing but praises after taking one of his courses, and if they aren’t in love with him by the end of the semester, they want to be him. It makes Suga wonder if having a shitty personality is a prerequisite for artistic genius.</p><p>Nishihara is also pretentious to the point of being classist, and a sadist who derives his particular pleasure from seeing just how far he can push those who work beneath him. He isn’t afraid to abuse his position to sexually harass every professor he deems worth his time without the fear of retribution, Suga included. He wants nothing more than for Nishihara to take a long walk off a short cliff, not that he can ever say as much without kissing his position goodbye. </p><p>“When are you going to model for me, Suga?”</p><p>It’s the <em> way </em> he flirts is what always gets Suga the most. He’s never slimey about it, never touches Suga or says anything overtly inappropriate. He says it like a secret, like they’re already in a relationship and making a game of keeping it from the rest of the world. The implication alone makes his skin crawl. </p><p>Nishihara is blocking his path. “I’m busy, Nishihara. Excuse me.” </p><p>“Wouldn’t you like to be my muse, Suga? You’d live on forever through my work. I could make you a star. A god, even.” </p><p>“I don’t want to be either of those things, Nishihara. I’m just trying to do my work. Please move.” </p><p>Finally, Nishihara steps aside, making sure that Suga has to squeeze between him and the wall to get by. Suga chucks his things into the first studio he finds and locks the door, resting his forehead on it to focus on slowing his heartbeat. </p><p>His phone beeps with a text notification. </p><p>Just like that, Nishihara becomes no more than a passing nuisance. </p><p>       [From: Tooru] </p><p>       did you know that according to the laws of electromagnetic repulsion, atoms are never actually touching each other??? so technically, we’ve never kissed :((</p><p> </p><p>       dried shiitake</p><p>       yuzu kosho</p><p>       tofu</p><p>       nasu</p><p>       chicken thighs</p><p>       green onions</p><p>       celery</p><p>       carrots</p><p>       milkbread（*＾＾*)</p><p>       &lt;3 </p><p>       [To: Tooru] </p><p>       i can’t believe I ever used to think you were cool</p><p>       ur such a nerd</p><p>       &lt;3</p><p>Suga makes good progress on two of his pieces, a charcoal abstraction for someone who happened across his work in a gallery and a semi-realistic portrait commissioned by a generous instagram follower. He doesn’t quite beat the evening grocery store rush, too absorbed in his work to notice the time unspooling around him, and gets stuck between mothers with unhappy babies strapped to their chests, salarymen who go straight for their favorite IPA and hungry teenagers on their way home from cramschool. He makes it out more or less unscathed and heads for home, already thinking about what he’ll make for dinner. </p><p>Hours later, Oikawa comes home.</p><p>“I’m home.” </p><p>“Welcome home.” </p><p>Oikawa goes straight into the bedroom instead of greeting Suga first like he normally would, which he tries not to not to overthink. </p><p>“When you did the laundry did you put any of my work shirts in the dryer?” Oikawa asks neutrally. </p><p>“Uhm, I mean I don’t think so. I’m usually pretty good about that sort of thing, why?” </p><p>“The sleeves on a few of my shirts are shorter now, is all.” </p><p>Suga glares at him over his shoulder. “And you automatically assume I’m the one to blame? We take turns doing laundry, maybe <em> you </em>put your shirts in the damn dryer.” </p><p>“Well <em> I </em> know how to read labels and these <em> clearly </em> say hang-dry, so I’m just confused how you could have missed something so obvious.” </p><p>Suga takes in Oikawa’s faux aloof posture, the way he tilts his chin so that he can look down his nose at Suga and the sullen cross of his arms over his chest. Oikawa may be able to play this game well with others, the game of diverting blame and pointing fingers when he’s itching for a fight, but Suga sees right through his posturing. He’s learned not to take any shit from Oikawa if only because he’s the only one willing to stand up to Oikawa when he starts to revert to his adolescent arrogance and bullying tactics. </p><p>Suga waves the spatula at him, causing a bit of oil to drip on the floor. “Now I <em> know </em> you’re full of it because you have never once read a wash instruction label. Did something happen at work? You can’t be mad about a couple shirts; you didn’t even get upset that time I turned all your white clothes pink.” </p><p>Oikawa sniffs imperiously. “That’s because I look just as good in pink as I do in white.” He slumps into the couch with a groan. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s Makoto again. He’s going to be the death of me and this project.” </p><p>Suga returns to his stirring. “What has he done now?” The lab’s newest hire Makoto Seiichi is often the source of Oikawa’s work-related woes, and, according to him, will be the reason why he'll go fully gray at thirty-five. </p><p>“Oh nothing much, just mixed up reagents thereby killing an entire generation of samples and setting our project back two weeks.”</p><p>Suga winces. “Uh oh.” </p><p>“Like, what sort of air-head mistakes sodium-chloride peptone for beta-mercaptoethanol? I would assume that since we’re all working in the same lab that we all wrote dissertations and therefore know how to fucking read! The names are right there on the damn labels, how difficult can it be?” </p><p>“What do those chemicals do? Is there any way to reverse the damage?” Suga isn’t actually trying to offer any suggestions, biochemical engineering is so far outside of his purview it might as well be in the next galaxy over, but Oikawa likes to let things fester so Suga gives him an out. </p><p>“The peptone tests for the presence of bacteria like E.coli and the beta-mercaptoethanol basically denatures proteins so no, there’s no way to reverse it and we’ll have to start over from the beginning.” </p><p>“That’s super frustrating Tooru, I’m sorry. But …” </p><p>One of Oikawa’s groomed eyebrows raises in question. </p><p>“It’s not like Makoto did it out of any sort of maliciousness. He made an honest mistake even if it did have unfortunate consequences. Not everyone is going to live up to your unattainable standards.” </p><p>“How did this suddenly become about me? And my standards are perfectly attainable because <em> I </em> have attained them.” </p><p>“Just cut the kid some slack. If this is his first real post-doc job he’s probably nervous as hell, like a certain someone was when they first started.” Suga tilts his head to the side, looking meaningfully at Oikawa. “Need I remind you of the radioactive cheese incident of 2020?” </p><p>Judging by the mullish look on Oikawa’s face, he recalls that incident too well and has probably conceded that Suga is right even if he won’t admit as much out loud. “You promised never to speak of it again,” he hissed. “Is there no loyalty in this household anymore?” </p><p>Ignoring Oikawa’s dramatics is as second nature to Suga as it is for Oikawa to act them out. It became easier after Suga figured out that they were usually a cover for some deeper sentiment that Oikawa was trying to push down, because he was never very good at unpacking and examining his own emotions. </p><p>“My point still stands,” he says. “Just try to remember that the people you’re working with are human, that <em> you’re </em> human, and forgive every once in a while.” </p><p>“If anything goes wrong with this project it’s on my head so forgive me for being a little tense.” </p><p>“Hey, I get it. Having to rely on other people when it’s your career on the line sucks. But guess what? You don’t really have a choice, so suck it up.” </p><p>Oikawa’s heavy sigh is as good as a resignation “I can always count on you for some <em> gentle </em> TLC and comfort.” </p><p>Suga winks at him over his shoulder. “You didn’t marry me ‘cause I’m warm and fuzzy.” </p><p>“I don’t recall marrying you period,” he mumbles. </p><p>“Well whose fault is that? I’m not gonna wait around forever for you to put a ring on it!” </p><p>“I’ll just call Prime Minister Yoshihide and tell him to get right on that, shall I?” </p><p>The food is finally finished and plated, loaded up onto a tray so that they can eat in the living room while watching Iron Chef reruns, because Thursday is also movie night. Suga sets the tray down and leans over to press a firm kiss to Oikawa’s forehead. </p><p>“Eat.” </p><p>“Thank you for the food.” </p><p>Oikawa likes to claim that he needs something sweet after every meal, and to this day it’s appeared to be true. He riffles through the grocery bags that Suga has yet to put away in search of milk bread, but his triumph upon finding fades to confusion. </p><p>He thrusts the bag under Suga’s nose. “Koushi, what is this?”</p><p>Suga pushes it aside with a scowl, trying to focus on who would be crowned the winner of this episode. “I thought we’d try a new brand.”</p><p>“But <em> why? </em> What’s wrong with our usual?”</p><p>“Nothing was <em> wrong </em> with it, but this brand has less calories and sugar per serving.”</p><p>Oikawa groans. “Please don’t make my milk bread suffer at the cruel hands of your health kick.” </p><p>“Just try it you big baby, I bet it tastes exactly the same. And if it doesn't, we’ll go back to Tennen Koubo Hokkaidou. I promise.”</p><p>Oikawa’s bottom lip juts out as he unwraps the bun. “Fine.” He takes a tentative bite like he’s scared the bread is booby-trapped. </p><p>“How is it?” asks Suga. </p><p>“Terrible!” Oikawa takes several more bites. </p><p>“Thought so.” </p><p><br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i hope the little bit of chemistry jargon is right, I tried to do my research but I'm also not a biochemical engineer so. Also, if it's not clear, this fic is set in 2024 and Suga and Oikawa are both 29 going on 30. </p><p>hmu on <a href="https://twitter.com/beiniiiii">twitter</a> if you want</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3月9日</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>oikawa's pov! might change around this chapter at some point but for now, enjoy</p><p>I'm not sure if Oikawa's older sister has a canon name so I gave her one</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>March is the month of beginnings and endings for Oikawa. Osaka’s weather is temperate throughout the year but March is when the city is allowed at last to shrug off the lingering vestiges of winter, replaced by a few extra hours of sunlight and the occasional rain instead of snowfall. It is also normally the month during which Sugawara reaches the upper limit of his tolerance for the growing piles of things stacked in every spare corner of their modest apartment. </p><p>On the second Friday of March, while Oikawa lounges on the couch with the television on low and his phone in his hand, Suga, intending to join him after having finished his shower, trips and tumbles to the floor with an undignified yelp. Oikawa, who had jumped at the sound, looks on with an impending sense of dread, and knows already what Sugawara is going to say. </p><p>He glares at Oikawa from his sprawled position on the floor. “It’s time.” </p><p>Suga doesn’t need to say <em> what </em> it’s time for because again, Oikawa is all too aware; that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant. “No! It’s not that bad, yet. Why don’t we do it next weekend after we get back from Miyagi?” Even as he pleads his case, Oikawa cringes away from the look on Suga’s face that promises a swift death and the reassurance that no one will ever find his body if he continues to argue. </p><p>Suga picks himself up off the floor, rubbing a hand against the flank he smacked on his way down.“Not that bad? Tooru, I just <em> tripped</em>. Over <em> your </em> junk. If we wait any longer we won’t be able to get out the front door to <em> see </em> our families.” </p><p>Oikawa’s pouts have long since lost their effect on Suga but that doesn’t stop him from trying. “My stuff isn't junk. It’s incredibly valuable.” </p><p>Suga bends to show him what he just tripped over—a plastic bead necklace from Yahaba’s New Year’s Eve party, and raises a singular eyebrow that says more than words ever could. At that, Oikawa accepts his defeat because yes, it’s time. </p><p>Spring Cleaning (yes, with both words capitalized) is an all weekend affair. Once the bell has been rung and Suga declares it time to deep clean the apartment, it becomes the central focus of the next however many days it takes to finish. They implemented this rule after the first few failed attempts to reorganize the place, in which Oikawa would get distracted, which caused Suga to lose steam, which resulted in a half clean half dirty apartment so starkly demarcated it may as well have been a line drawn in the sand. This dissatisfied state of cleaning limbo remained until one or both of them remembered the imperative two months down the line and finally got back off their asses. </p><p>So Saturday morning Oikawa wakes with a renewed sense of purpose. He’ll get started while Suga is still sleeping, an apology for causing the ugly bruise now blossoming on his hip bone. Before that however, he can’t help but take several long moments to admire Suga’s sleeping form beside him. His expression unguarded, lips slack and eyebrows tipped up like a Tim Burton character.</p><p>Many people find Suga abrasive, or find his abrasiveness to be jarring. They see his sweet face and slight frame, assume that his demeanor should match his countenance, and are put off when it doesn’t. Oikawa loves that Suga continuously defies expectations, even when he’s not aware he’s doing it, he loves his deep voice and the gruff, often physical way he tends to show affection, but Oikawa loves this too. It’s something of a point of pride for him that he’s one of the privileged few around whom Suga permits himself to be gentle and soft, even if only while he’s asleep. </p><p>Oikawa gives into the urge to kiss Suga, and leans over to brush his lips against the mole just under his eye. He maneuvers Suga so that he’s not quite suffocating himself with his pillow, then slides out of bed to tackle the mess. Their upstairs neighbors are awake as well, already making an inconsiderate amount of noise given the time of morning. Oikawa and Suga aren’t certain who lives above them, whether it’s a single person with a particularly heavy foot or a herd of wild elephants, but they never fail to make their presence known whenever he and Suga are home. Suga, at least, is a heavy sleeper, whereas there are many nights that Oikawa is kept awake by the sound. </p><p>He forgoes breakfast, still full from their veritable banquet of takeout from Suga’s favorite Thai restaurant, and picks a corner to begin with. Loathe as he is to rid himself of the treasures he’s spent the year collecting, he has to admit that Suga has a point. Oikawa wouldn’t call himself a hoarder—and he’s sure that others would disagree—but he just likes <em> things</em>. Pictures, he thinks, have always been insufficient as souvenirs. Sure, he could go back through his photo albums and be reminded of all the places they visited on a given trip out of the country or retreat to a winter spa. But a memory in two dimensions was just that, flat, lifeless, impersonal. </p><p>Oikawa much preferred the weight and feel of a physical object in his hand, allowing it to transport him back to that time and place, or maybe like an anchor, his things kept past moments from slipping away. His own veritable marina of cherished memories. Everyone had a picture of Fushimi Inari Shrine; only Oikawa had a journal of pressed leaves in the shape of little foxes he’d collected on the hike up to the Shrine stowed away and only Oikawa knew their significance. </p><p><em> Of course, not everything is as valuable as a souvenir from vacation</em>, thinks Oikawa as he winces at the sheer amount of impulse buys staring him in the face. Okay so maybe, he just likes having stuff. His family was by no means poor growing up. He and his sister always had enough to eat, clothes without patched-over holes, and were permitted to go on school trips. Nonetheless, young Oikawa, too perceptive by half even then, was careful never to ask for anything <em> too </em>expensive to save his parents the disappointment of having to tell him no. </p><p>Now that Oikawa was an adult (ish) with a steady stream of disposable income, he enjoys being able to purchase things that he wants without agonizing over how much damage they would do to his savings. Suga, on the other hand, doesn’t <em> not </em> like stuff. They’ve both succumbed to a fair number of ridiculous impulse purchases, but his preference of order over chaos restrained the worst of his urges. </p><p>Oikawa’s sifting system is simple, he separates all of the things that Suga is going to demand that he get rid of in three piles of keep, maybe, and give away, concurrently coming up with strong arguments for why the keeps should stay. Suga will help him whittle down the maybes and, knowing him, convince Oikawa that some of his keeps aren’t as necessary as Oikawa believes them to be. By the time Suga shuffles into the living room an hour and a half later, Oikawa has made decent progress, although at first glance the mess appears to have grown sentience and taken over the entire living room. Doing a deep clean of their apartment was often an exercise in tearing down the whole place to build it back up again. </p><p>Suga grunts in Oikawa’s direction, his version of ‘good morning’ before he’s had his caffeine, and bypasses the sea of junk flooding their floor to the kitchen. Five minutes later he returns with two cups of tea in his hand, hands Oikawa one, and sinks down with a groan to sit next to him. </p><p>“My ass still hurts,” Suga says. </p><p>Oikawa wraps an arm around Suga’s waist to pat said ass. “Sorry, Kou-chan.”</p><p>“Why did Yahaba give out so much crap anyway? What are we, teenagers?” </p><p>“He just loves any excuse to throw a party, party favors and all.” </p><p>Suga surveys the three piles, the largest of which is the ‘keep’ pile. “Not a bad start,” he says, which is code for <em> you’ll be lucky if I let you keep a quarter of this stuff</em>. Oikawa takes the win anyway. </p><p>The ensuing negotiation over what goes and what stays is stiff and rife with tension. He and Suga sit cross-legged opposite each other with the item in question equidistant between the two of them. </p><p>“Tooru,” Suga says, looking him straight in the eyes. </p><p>“Koushi,” replies Oikawa in the same tone. </p><p>“What are we going to do with a frog-shaped teapot?” </p><p>“I thought that’d be obvious. Make tea with it.” </p><p>“And our other three teapots are insufficient for making tea because …?” </p><p>Oikawa saw the teapot and cup set in a passing store window one day and felt as if he’d been zapped with electricity. The moment he laid eyes on it’s bulging white belly and spout lips, he knew he needed to have it. “<em> Those </em> aren’t shaped like frogs. Think of how much more enjoyable your drinking experience would be if you sipped it out of little tadpole cups, Koushi. Tadpole cups!” This is one thing that Oikawa isn’t willing to back down on. He holds the teapot up to his face, porcelain cool against his cheek, and widens his eyes just so. </p><p>“Koushi, our lives wouldn’t be complete without a frog teapot set.” </p><p>Suga scrubs at his forehead. “It is a cute teapot.” </p><p>Vindicated, Oikawa straightens up with a grin. </p><p>“But. <em> But</em>.” Suga points a finger in his direction. “I refuse to have four teapots around the house. If you want to keep that one you have to get rid of at least two others. I don’t care which ones.” </p><p>To Oikawa, it’s an acceptable compromise. “Deal.” </p><p>He and Suga repeat this process with so many items that Oikawa loses count: a museum ticket from their date last week, gift card from Oikawa’s sister that’d he already used but felt the urge to keep anyway, a three-year-old set logo’d memorabilia given to Oikawa by his company when he signed his contract, too many pens, the world’s ugliest watch according to Suga, and a dog leash for a dog they don’t own. There’s also a miniature telescope, the envelope Oikawa received his diploma in but not the diploma itself, an old set of Suga’s paint brushes that Suga had thought he’d thrown out, and a Swiss army knife.</p><p>“For when we go camping!” explains Oikawa. </p><p>At that, Suga laughs outright, full-bodied and bright with a toss of his head. “Tooru, we’ve never once camped in our lives. Or hiked, for that matter.” </p><p>“But we <em> might</em>,” he stresses. “And should that day come, we’ll be extra prepared.” Even if they never did go camping, a Swiss army knife seems like a practical thing to have around the house. After all, a knife, cork-screw, nail file, pair of scissors, tweezer, and several other tools all in one compartment would find a way to make itself useful when the time was right. </p><p>“I’m only letting you keep that because it doesn’t take up space,” says Suga.</p><p>“You know I’m right.” </p><p>“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” </p><p>Oikawa digs a flat box out from their coat closet, inspecting it curiously. He doesn’t remember purchasing this. “Koushi, when did we get a body weight scale?” </p><p>He almost thinks he’s imagining it when Suga’s expression becomes cagey, avoiding Oikawa’s gaze. “Oh I just bought it recently. Here, give it to me, I’ll find somewhere for it.” </p><p>“Sure.” He hands it over and moves onto the next pile.</p><p>By Sunday, the apartment is about as orderly as it's going to get. They have a substantial stockpile of ‘give-away’ items to try to foist onto their friends and family, or drop off at a donation center, and everything that was allowed to stay has been put in its proper place, far away from getting underfoot and causing another incident. Oikawa feels a bit like a pumpkin whose innards have been hollowed out. He can feel the space where something <em> should </em> be, but he’s also lighter for that lack. </p><p>Suga must see some of that on his face because he reaches for Oikawa’s hands and lifts them to press a kiss to his knuckles. “One day we’ll buy a nice house big enough to keep all of your junk in.” It’s as much of an apology as it is a promise. </p><p>“Come on, let’s go for a walk. Soleil?” A trip to Oikawa’s favorite bakery is often Suga’s preferred method to cheer him up. </p><p>Already grabbing his coat, Oikawa says. “That’s a long walk.” </p><p>“After being shut in all weekend, we could use the exercise.” </p><p>Oikawa reels Suga in for a deep kiss, trying to infuse within it all the tender warmth welling up in his chest, then plants another wet one on his cheek. “Let’s go.” </p><p> </p><p>3月15日</p><p>The weekend after that is their trip to Miyagi. Oikawa and Sugarawa try to go back home at least several times a year, not always together, but in this instance their schedules lined up well enough to do so. They leave for the bullet train just after Oikawa has gotten off of work and settle in for the three hour ride. He struggles not to fall asleep against Suga’s shoulder, exhausted after ten hours of dealing with the seemingly endless ways in which his lab team made his life as difficult as possible with their incompetence. They’ve even driven him to contemplate whether the promotion is worth all this trouble; if a pay raise and more responsibility means dealing with morons every day then Oikawa might just be content where he is. </p><p>He’s looking forward to getting away, if only for the weekend, plus his sister texted saying that she and her family would also be in town which means seeing his adorable nephew again. Oikawa slumps down further in his seat and lets his eyes slip shut. </p><p>“Wake me when we’re almost there,” he requests. </p><p>Suga pats his thigh without looking up from his book. “Will do.” </p><p>Oikawa and Suga arrive at Miyagi late, which he informed his parents in advance, but that doesn’t stop his mother from clucking about it when he rings the doorbell at close to midnight. They changed the locks so he can no longer just let himself in.</p><p>“For God’s sake, Tooru, couldn’t you have gotten an earlier train ride?” She ushers him inside and flaps at him to take his shoes and coat off. </p><p>“I work late hours, mom. The 7:30 train was the best I could do.” </p><p>“Well I guess it can’t be helped. Mari and Takao are upstairs and Takeru is in your room so you’ll have to take the couch. I set out some blankets and a pillow, do you need anything else?” </p><p>“I’m good. You should go to bed, you look tired.” </p><p>She whacks his arm. “Gee thanks.” </p><p>“I mean that out of sincerest love.” He folds her slight frame into his arms and rests his chin on the top of her head.</p><p>Sometimes, it frightens Oikawa to think that his parents are growing older. They’re not old <em> yet </em>, at least that’s what they’d like to say, but Oikawa can see the ways in which the years are starting to catch up to them when dad has to grip the table while lowering himself into a chair or mom complains that the stairs are hard on her knees. It makes him hold on just a little tighter and a little longer when he gets the chance. </p><p>“It’s good to see you, mom.” </p><p>His mother, who has been the shortest member of their family since Oikawa hit his growth spurt in high school, is used to being encompassed by her children, and wriggles one arm around to rub Oikawa’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you too. We missed having you around.” </p><p>Oikawa snorts a little as he lets her go. “You missed me so much you gave away my room to Takeru.”</p><p>“We couldn’t make the poor kid share a room with his parents now, could we?” </p><p>He winces, imagining if he’d been forced to sleep with his parents at nineteen. “Maybe you’ve got a point. Someone owes me a back massage though because I know that couch is going to fuck up my spine.” </p><p>“Tooru!” she whisper-yells. “Language!” </p><p>“Sorry.” </p><p>“Oh, nevermind. Just try to get some sleep.” </p><p>“ ‘Night.”</p><p>“Good night.” </p><p>Oikawa fumbles in the dark towards the couch and collapses into it with a sigh, not bothering to change out of his clothes. </p><p>In what feels like the blink of an eye, he’s jerking awake the next morning to the sound of steel pans crashing together. It takes him a second to remember where he is as he squints in the general direction of the noise. In the kitchen, Takeru is frozen in place with his shoulders hiked up around his ears and a sheepish look on his face, the offending article of cookware in his hands. </p><p>“Sorry Uncle Tooru, I was trying to be quiet.” And geez, when had Takeru gotten so big? Oikawa knows that he’s nineteen now, and starting university this spring but it’s been too long since he’s seen his nephew in person. He’s all knobby knees and elbows despite his impressive height, not having quite grown into his stature which makes Oikawa feel a bit mollified. </p><p>He sits up with a groan, rubbing at the stiffness in his shoulders and neck and can’t help a yawn. “It’s fine, buddy. If it wasn’t you it’d be Mari-nee or Dad. Sleeping next to the kitchen doesn’t exactly make for the most restful nights.” </p><p>“Also sorry for stealing your room.” Now that Oikawa is awake, Takeru doesn’t bother trying to make less noise as he digs for more pots and pans. “I told mom and dad that we should just get a hotel room but …” </p><p>“Oh please, we wouldn’t hear the end of it from your grandma and grandpa if we decided to stay in hotels instead of coming straight here.” </p><p>“‘We didn’t raise you to be wasteful!’” he and Takeru say at the same time, dissolving into laughter afterwards. Mari had always absorbed that lesson better than Oikawa and has no doubt parroted the same thing to Takeru numerous times. </p><p>“Are you making food for everyone? Want some help?” Then Oikawa gets a whiff of himself and makes a face. “Actually hold that thought.” He’s still in yesterday’s button down and slacks, now hopelessly wrinkled after a train ride and seven hours of fitful sleep. He grabs a change of clothes and his toiletries and makes quick use of the guest bathroom down the hall. </p><p>Ten minutes later he’s back and more refreshed. “Now that I don’t smell like public transportation, would you like some help?” </p><p>“Sure,” Takeru agrees. “I was just going to make some salmon, miso soup, and maybe tsukudani?” </p><p>“Sounds good. Where do you want me?” </p><p>Oikawa lets himself be directed by Takeru’s instruction, chopping mushrooms and other vegetables for the soup, and making a fresh batch of rice. The rest of the house trickles down in ones and twos, until his mother, father, sister and brother-in-law are all occupying some amount of space in their kitchen. </p><p>Mari greets him with a hearty slap on the back, as if she knows that a night on the couch has misaligned his spine and is hoping to land the finishing blow. </p><p>“‘Sup, nerd?” </p><p>“Why do you always resort to physical violence?” he hisses, dodging her second blow. </p><p>“It’s my solemn duty as your big sister to keep that desk job from turning you into a wuss.” She prepares a pot of coffee for herself and whoever else wants it. “How’s Osaka? How’s work?” she asks. </p><p>“Work’s the same. Osaka’s fine.” </p><p>“Is that so? And your roommate? How is he?” Fucking Mari. She knows that Oikawa is gay, has known since she caught him looking up gay porn on their family computer then helped him wipe the search history, and she also knows that Suga isn’t just his roommate. She and Oikawa have always been at odds when it came to letting his parents in on it, and because she was older and therefore infinitely wiser than he, even five years later she won’t let up and does her level best to force Oikawa out in the open. </p><p>“You’re still living with a roommate?” Takeru wonders. </p><p>Oikawa’s dad folds his newspaper shut with a frown. “Isn’t it time for you to get your own place? You’re almost thirty. Is your job not paying you enough?” </p><p>Oikawa loves his parents, and he knows that his parents love him. He just refuses to test that love by informing them of his sexual preferences. He and Suga have agreed that this is what’s best for everyone involved; if only Mari would get that through her stubborn head. </p><p>He scowls at his sister, whose cool gaze says, <em> your move</em>. “My job pay is fine. It’s just that Osaka rent is so expensive when you live close to the city center. Plus he and I get along well, we have a comfortable arrangement.” </p><p>“You make it sound as if you're married,” his mom says. “Won’t it be awkward to bring a girl home when you start dating?” </p><p>“We haven’t had any issues so far.” Guilt gnaws at his conscience. “Besides, it won’t be forever. I’m up for a possible promotion at work.” And with that, they move onto another subject. Oikawa ignores Mari’s gaze burning into his back to help Takeru with the salmon. He isn’t some little kid anymore that she can just push around whenever she wants. He’s an adult, who makes his own choices and has to live with them, no matter how bitter they taste coming out. </p><p>Oikawa spends the morning and afternoon at the house, and the evening at Suga’s under the guise of seeing a friend. It’s ironic that Suga is estranged from his parents—so much so that outside of his visits back to Sendai, they don’t talk—yet they know more about their son than Oikawa’s parents know about him. Maybe it’s because they’re so distant that Suga was able to tell them that he was gay and in a relationship without fear of reprisal, or maybe Suga was just braver than Oikawa. </p><p>Either way, it’s something of a relief to have dinner at the Sugawara household where they don’t have to pretend, even if the conversation is stilted and arduous. Here, they can pretend that they are a normal couple having a normal dinner with normal parents, with Suga’s hand on Oikawa’s thigh and Oikawa’s arm slung over the back of Suga’s chair. </p><p>“Have you lost weight, Koushi?” Suga’s mother asks at one point during the dinner. </p><p>The question is innocuous yet startles Oikawa all the same. Has Suga lost weight? He looks the man beside him up and down, scanning for any major changes but he looks the way he always has, save for a bit of gauntness in his cheekbones. How could Oikawa, who spends the majority of his time with Suga, not have noticed? </p><p>“I don’t know,” replies Suga, offhand. “I haven’t really been keeping track.” </p><p>Oikawa thinks back to the scale he found stuffed into the furthest depths of their closet, almost like it was hidden on purpose, and wonders why Suga feels the need to lie about this particular thing. </p><p>“Well you look good,” Suga’s father says. “I was worried you were getting a little chubby there.” </p><p>“Mm,” Suga agrees. “So was I.” </p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hmu on <a href="https://twitter.com/beiniiiii">twitter</a> if you want</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4月1日</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was hesitant to add this because spoilers but, content warning for behaviors that could be interpreted as disordered eating, as well as behaviors associated with anorexia and bingeing. If excessive talk of weight and food tracking don’t vibe with you, you probably shouldn’t read this. </p><p>I'm not ... one hundred percent satisfied with this chapter but having it sit in my drafts wasn't going to make it any better so here we are. ~enjoy~ lol</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Sugawara begins to weigh himself every morning. Before January, before he became uniquely conscious of all the ways in which he was too big and too much, the only time Suga weighed himself was when he went to the doctor for his check-up. The nurse would say that he was healthy and had nothing to worry about, so Suga chose to leave it at that. Now, he weighs himself in the bathroom on an empty stomach before Oikawa wakes, and catalogs the number in his pocket-sized notebook next to a list of everything he’d eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner that week. </p><p>Just to keep track, he tells himself. The videos he’d found online said that keeping track is important to know what is and isn’t working for his body; it’s not like he’s counting calories, just how much. Seventy grams of rice for breakfast with two sixty gram eggs, one-hundred grams of chicken with seventy-five grams of plain, steamed broccoli. Tracking his weight and meals is almost like balancing a chemistry equation, if his weight goes up then he reduces his seventy grams of rice to fifty or forty, and if his weight goes down, then he stays where he is. </p><p>Oikawa brought it up once, on the train ride back home after dinner with Suga’s parents, and Suga just told him the truth—that he was trying to lose some weight and was on a diet. What was so unusual about that? Oikawa hadn’t looked convinced but he didn’t push the issue, so Suga didn’t push it either, and Oikawa hasn’t said anything since. </p><p>On the morning of his first day of spring semester classes, Suga weighs almost a kilogram more than he did yesterday. He frowns at the digital number flashing at him; what has he done wrong? His meals have been steady for the past week or so. And he doesn’t want to opt for a smaller breakfast on the first day of classes when his gut is already wrenching with nerves and anxiety.</p><p>Five years of teaching and introducing himself to a new crop of students never got any easier. It helps that Suga’s teaching two upper level courses this semester that will be mostly familiar faces, but he also has a massive—by art school standards—first-year lecture on two-dimensional design that he knows for a fact will be difficult to corral, at least for the first few weeks. </p><p>Suga slides his scale back into the closet and prepares to face his day. Before he can fully sit down at the dining table, Oikawa asks, “What’s wrong?” </p><p>Suga doesn’t know why he thought he could mask his worry; Oikawa could read him like an open book <em> before </em> they started dating, nevermind living together. </p><p>“It’s nothing,” says Suga, because it <em> is </em> nothing. At least, nothing worth hashing out that they haven’t circumnavigated dozens of times. </p><p>Oikawa’s hum says he doesn’t believe Suga for a single second. “Today’s your first day of classes, right?”</p><p>“Yeah. It’ll be fine, I’m just being silly.” </p><p>Oikawa raises an eyebrow as he lifts a piece of fish to his mouth. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself? I know it’ll be fine because you’re an incredible artist and professor, and your students will love you like they do every semester.” </p><p>Suga sucks his teeth, flattered even as he feels like Oikawa is lying just to appease him. “That’s like a mother calling her child beautiful; you’re legally obligated as my boyfriend to say that, but you haven’t dealt with the horror that are first-year students, Tooru. Every one of them thinks that they’re the next Da Vinci or Ai Weiwei yet are simultaneously the most insecure group of people you’ll ever meet.”</p><p>“Sounds like someone I know.” </p><p>Suga kicks at Oikawa’s ankle. “Shut it, you. At best, I’m Titian.” </p><p>Oikawa slides the remainder of his pickled vegetables into Suga’s bowl. “Do I need to get the student reviews of years passed?”</p><p>Oikawa insisted on keeping a binder full of course reviews from Suga’s previous semesters, organized alphabetically by type because his hoarding tendencies didn’t preclude him from being organized. When he tired of Suga’s constant self-deprecation, he’d read through the inch-thick binder out loud until Suga—mortified beyond the telling to be subjected to external perspectives of himself—was forced to admit that he was, in fact, a legitimate artist and belonged at Osaka U-of-A.</p><p>Suga cringes. “Please don’t.” </p><p>“As long as we’re on the same page. Are you picking up Fujioka?”</p><p>He checks his phone. “Yeah, fuck I should leave soon. Now, I mean.” It’s also a good excuse to leave his food half-finished. He dumps it into a glass container with the promise to eat it later, sticks it in the back of the fridge and scrambles to gather his belongings. </p><p>While Suga is in the genkan pulling his shoes on, Oikawa suggests that they do something this weekend. </p><p>“Sure, what were you thinking?” </p><p>“Hm, I passed a cat café on the way home from work the other day. It looked like they’d just opened.” </p><p>“Sounds like a plan! Come here so I can kiss you goodbye.”</p><p>Oikawa obeys, and smirks when Suga has to lean up further than usual to reach his lips, with Oikawa on the upper level of the genkan and Suga, several centimeters below in the depression. “Bend down, jerk.” </p><p>He smiles against Suga’s lips. “See you tonight.” </p><p>“I’m off.” </p><p>With a text to Fujioka that Suga should be there in twenty minutes, he’s on his way. </p><p>April’s in-between weather continues to elude Suga. The mornings are cold enough that he still needs to wear his winter jacket but by early afternoon the heat is enough to have him sweating in the same outfit that felt inadequate not four hours before. He supposes he could be more grateful for the pleasant weather, even if it only lasts a few hours; then again, Suga thinks at the frigid blast of air that precedes Fujioka when she flings the car door open, perhaps the earth’s orbit could kiss his ass. </p><p>Fujioka dresses like she’s never known the cold a day in her life, like they live in the tropics instead of southern Japan, in a fluttering blouse tucked into a trendy skirt and knee-high boots that will have her male students tongue-tied. </p><p>“You’ve been avoiding me,” is the first thing she says after buckling her seat belt. </p><p>“I have, have I?” Suga has to park his foot on the breaks when a taxi goes flying past and cuts into his lane. “Asshole,” he mutters.</p><p>“When was the last time we saw each other?” she asks. </p><p>“Uhm.” Suga has to think hard about it and even then, he can’t remember.</p><p>“February. Last day of classes.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m a horrible, crappy friend but I promise it wasn’t on purpose. I’ve been …” Maybe he has been avoiding her. Just a little. </p><p>“Busy?” She touches up her mascara in the mirror. The first time she’d started doing her makeup while Suga was driving, he thought she was going to stab her eye out with the spikey end of that brush. Now he’s unphased, and doesn’t even take special care to slow to a stop at yellow lights. </p><p>“Busy and distracted,” Suga adds. “And maybe dreading coming back. I just—god Fujioka, what if they hate me? How did I get this job? I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, let alone am qualified enough to tell other people what to do. I’m not like you or Nishihara, with closets full of awards and cushy tenure—ow! Fujioka, I’m <em> driving</em>.” </p><p>She’d slapped him on the arm hard enough to sting. “First of all, don’t <em> ever </em> mention me and that ball of slime in the same sentence. Second, you know that’s bullshit. The university would’ve never hired you if they thought you weren’t qualified to teach. And—coming from an objective standpoint and not just as your friend—you’re work is <em> art </em>, Suga-chan, and it’s worth just as much as my designs or he-who-shall-not-be-named’s photography.” </p><p>Suga doesn’t know how to respond without running the risk of crying like a freaking baby. Needless to say, he’s touched, especially given that Fujioka gets a version of this lamentation every semester. “Fujioka …” </p><p>“I know, I’m the best friend you’ve ever had. You don’t deserve me, etcetera, etcetera.” </p><p>And, Suga can’t help himself. “I think Tooru’s got you beat there.” </p><p>She waves a hand, unconcerned. “Romantic partners hardly count. I’m your best friend that you’re not having sex with.” </p><p>“God could you imagine?” Suga pretends to gag.</p><p>“You should be so lucky. I’d eat your skinny ass alive.” </p><p>Suga doesn’t doubt it. </p><p>As both Oikawa and Fujioka predict, Suga’s classes pass without incident. He has to threaten the printer and curse its mother a few times when it runs out of toner halfway through printing his syllabi but a third-year student who works part-time in the department is quick to replace the empty cartridge. He knows by now not to expect too much on the first day of classes and lets his students go after reviewing the syllabus. Although Suga has yet to run into him, he feels the ghost of Nishihara’s presence lurking around every well-lit corner. </p><p>He’s vigilant until he and Fujioka meet up for lunch, after which he can hide out in his office or the studio for a couple of hours then scurry home when Fujioka’s lessons are done. </p><p>The weather is nice enough for them to sit outside on one of the few maintained spaces of green on campus, under the shadow of the anemic cherry blossom trees. </p><p>“Where’s your lunch?” Fujioka asks. </p><p>Suga pulls a bottle of water out of his tote bag. “Didn’t have time to make it.” </p><p>“Okay? Go by something from the dining hall? I’m not going to sit here and eat while you just watch me stuff my face.” </p><p>Suga isn’t even that hungry. “Hell no, that place is a rip-off. Fifteen-hundred yen for a salad? I’d rather starve, thanks.” Fujioka doesn’t laugh at his poor attempt at a joke. </p><p>“Since when do you pass on lunch?” she grumbles, scooping up one of her sausage octopi from its ocean of rice. </p><p>“Since I had a big breakfast, and promise to eat a snack when I get home, <em> mom</em>. Is that good enough for you?” </p><p>The way she chomps off her sausage octopus head says that it might not be, but that she also won’t push the issue. “Sorry. I’m not implying that you can’t take care of yourself.” </p><p>“I know you’re just looking out for me, Fujioka. You don’t have to be sorry.”</p><p>She levels her chopsticks at him in warning.</p><p>“Kaori.” </p><p>Mollified, she changes the subject. Eventually, after three-quarters of his water bottle has been emptied, the persistent hollowness in Suga’s stomach recedes. It recedes when he skips the snack, and again at dinner because he refuses to let it stay, and because almost a kilogram is a lot to gain and lose. </p><p> </p><p>4月6日</p><p>When Suga weighs himself before his and Oikawa’s cat café date he is a kilogram and a half lighter and all but euphoric for it. Giddy pride satiates him better than any meal could. On their walk to the café, Oikawa notices, smiling along with Suga although he’s sure Oikawa has no clue why he’s so elated. </p><p>They planned to go earlier in the day before the café filled with people, and are pleased to see that their imperative pays off when they arrive and the café is empty. Oikawa is already beginning to coo at the cats he can see from the entrance, dripping from various surfaces in that liquid way that cats tend to possess. A young man greets them from behind the cash register and informs them of the cafés policies. If Suga or Oikawa want to take a picture they have to turn off their flash, not to wake any cats that are sleeping, and not to pick up any cats, but it’s okay if the cats approach them on their own. </p><p>Each item on the menu is named after a cat and accompanied by a visual aid. After Oikawa’s had his fill of ogling at cat climbing frames nailed to the walls, he directs his attention to the impressive glass display of pastries and desserts. He orders the ‘Hime’, an iced dark chocolate mocha latte and strawberry rosewater scone, while Suga gets the ‘Grinch’, a black coffee that he assumes is meant to match the countenance of the cantankerous maine coon in the photo. </p><p>“Please sit wherever you’d like; I’ll bring your orders to you!” </p><p>Ever strategic, Oikawa says, “Let’s sit where there’s a higher chance of the kitties saying hello!” They position themselves in an optimal spot between an elaborate scratching post that looks more like a castle—complete with a princess perched at the top—and a couch covered in no less than six cats of varying sizes and ages. Each table has a laminated table mat that serves as a picture guide to differentiating all twenty-two cats. </p><p>Suga winces at the sheer amount of fur that’s attached itself to his clothes since walking through the door. “Maybe I shouldn’t have worn black.” </p><p>Oikawa appears unconcerned. “I think I saw some lint rollers by the entrance. I’m sure they’ll let you use it on the way out—hello!” he gasps. </p><p>A gray tabby lumbers over and winds its way around Oikawa’s ankles. It sniffs Oikawa’s proffered hand with mild suspicion, then must deem him acceptable enough to pet it, pushing its whiskered face into Oikawa’s fingers. </p><p>“Aren’t you so sweet? What’s your name, hm? Are you Merry?” </p><p>“I think this is Winston,” says Suga. “Look. ‘White socks’.” Each picture on the table mat comes with a small paragraph about the cat’s personality and physical features. </p><p>As most cats do, Winston eventually tires of the lavish attention and waddles back the way he came to squeeze himself into a box half his size.</p><p>Suga, who’d been paying closer attention to the tempered joy on Oikawa’s face, feels a slight weight settle into his lap. One of the smaller black ones has decided that his thighs make a good resting place. The café has multiple black cats that resemble each other too closely for him to tell if it’s Momo, Sasuke, or Gaia kneading it’s claws into his pants. It flashes open one fluorescent gray eye at Suga’s hand along its back, then drifts off. </p><p>“Tooru.” Suga doesn’t know why he feels the need to whisper. Maybe for the same reason he’s all but holding his breath—so as not to disturb his new friend. “Look.” </p><p>Oikawa has to crane his neck to see over the table, and just <em> melts</em>. He comes around to crouch by Suga’s legs, phone in hand to snap pictures. </p><p>“And it just got in your lap?” he asks, running a careful finger down the cat’s nose.</p><p>“Uh huh.” </p><p>“What a sweetheart.” </p><p>“That’s Gaia,” the waiter says, balancing a tray of their purchases. “One Hime and one Grinch.” </p><p>The coffee, though plain, is almost good enough to justify its steep price, better than the swill Suga knows Oikawa forces himself to chug on a daily basis. Before Suga can stop him, Oikawa has already cut his scone in half, no doubt intending to share it with Suga. </p><p>“So,” he starts. “How was your first week back?” </p><p>“Average. The first years seem eager at least. I feel like someone’s been spreading rumors about me because they all seemed a little … scared? Or apprehensive. I don’t know though, maybe I’m just in my head.” </p><p>“You’re pretty scary, Kou-chan. A lot scarier than me for sure.” </p><p>Suga rolls his eyes. “As if. You’re the giant, former pro-volleyball player with the killer serve. In comparison to that, I’m small potatoes.” </p><p>“Should I come by and talk some sense into them?” Oikawa frowned, mock stern. </p><p>On rare occasions, an avid volleyball fan will recognize Oikawa from the days when he was the youngest player in recent memory to make the national team. However, Suga doubts that the cross section of first-year art students who also happened to be into volleyball as eight-year-olds is very large. At best, the encounter would create confusion on all sides, but Suga has to smile at the image of Oikawa trying to intimidate an eighteen-year-old into being nice to him. </p><p>“I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll survive. Nishihara on the other hand …” </p><p>Oikawa’s frown turns serious. “Who’s Nishihara?” </p><p>Fuck. Had Suga mentioned Nishihara to Oikawa before? He must have, he tells Oikawa almost everything. Or is he thinking of his conversations with Fujioka?</p><p>“Koushi? Who’s Nishihara?” </p><p>Suga wonders how much he can reveal without Oikawa losing his cool.</p><p>Objectively, he knows that what Nishihara does is fucked up and not at all acceptable, but he also doesn’t want Oikawa to worry over something that, at its essence, can’t be changed. Suga isn’t going anywhere and Nishihara isn’t going anywhere, so what use is there in making something out of nothing? </p><p>“He’s just this jerk professor from the photography department,” is what Suga settles on. </p><p>“What has he done?” </p><p>“Why do you assume he’s done anything?” Suga mumbles into his mug. “Maybe he’s just an asshole.” </p><p>“That alone tells me that there’s more.” </p><p>The feel of Gaia’s sleek fur beneath his fingers calms him somewhat. “He just … flirts, all right? Even though he knows I’m in a relationship. It’s not a big deal.” </p><p>“It is a big deal if it makes you uncomfortable!” Oikawa snaps. </p><p>The cashier, who up until this point has been doing an admirable job of pretending to be busy and minding his own business, looks in their direction, then looks away just as hastily. </p><p>It occurs to Suga then that from the outside it looks like the two of them are having a fight—with Suga’s defensive posture and Oikawa’s seemingly volatile temper. Are they fighting? Isn’t there usually more yelling, and maybe some thrown glassware for dramatic effect? Suga’s main frame of reference consists of terrible Netflix soap operas and of course, his own parents.</p><p>“Has he touched you? Has he—?” Oikawa asks. </p><p>“God no. Tooru, you know I’d never let it get that far. He just says weird stuff and I can’t report him unless I want to lose my job because he’s on the board, so. Just leave it.” </p><p>“It’s not about what you’d <em> let </em> him do, it’s what he could do in spite of that,” Oikawa murmurs. </p><p>Suga wants to reach out to take Oikawa’s hand. He could. They’re still alone in the café, and now the waiter is doing his level best to not pay attention, yet something keeps him from doing so. Habit, maybe. </p><p>“Tooru.” Suga waits until Oikawa looks up from the scone he’s plucked into pieces. “Can you trust me when I say I’ve got this under control, and that it’s not a big deal?” </p><p>The response is quick to tumble from Oikawa’s mouth. “I trust you.” </p><p>“That’s not exactly what I asked.” </p><p>His lower lip juts out. “<em>Fine</em>. But I reserve the right to punch this asshole in the face if I ever see him.” </p><p>“Please don’t,” says Suga mildly. “I don’t want to have to explain how you broke your hand when I take you to the hospital.” </p><p>“So little faith!”</p><p>“When it comes to you knowing the proper way to punch someone without injuring yourself? I’d say that’s accurate. Just call me a heathen.” </p><p>Oikawa bends to pet his meal’s namesake, Hime, who has deigned to descend from her throne to bless the commonwealth with her presence. “I could always stab him. Isn’t that right, Hime? We should just stab the shitty professor harrassing Kou-chan. I knew you’d agree, it’s a good plan isn’t it?” </p><p>Suga tries for stern but ends up somewhere around exasperation and amusement. “You’re not allowed to stab him either. I’m confiscating that Swiss Army knife when we get home.” </p><p>Oikawa leans back in his chair, thoughtful. “Huh. You know my mind hadn’t even gone there but now that you mention it, that’s not a bad idea. I was planning to go straight for a butter knife, make it hurt more, you know?” </p><p>“How could I forget your sadistic tendencies? You’d have to be pretty freaking angry to successfully maim someone with a butter knife, though.” </p><p>“Trust me, I am. Maybe I could spike it like a volleyball …” </p><p>Suga can’t contain his laughter anymore. “You’re ridiculous! ‘Spike it like a volleyball’, my ass.” </p><p>Oikawa pushes his plate towards Suga. “Have some of my scone. It’s good.” </p><p>Obligingly, Suga pops a small piece into his mouth. The coarse sugar hits his tongue like ten shots of cough syrup that’s almost too sweet to swallow. Once that melts away, Suga is left with a chunk of masticated carbs that’s a stone he swears he can hear going down, the solid, echoing <em> thunk </em> of it when it hits the bottom of his stomach. Suga doesn’t want the scone, then suddenly he does. He eats another piece, and another, and another until he’s finished his half and most of Oikawa’s. </p><p>“Jesus, sorry. I guess I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” </p><p>But Oikawa only says, “Have the rest.” </p><p>They spend another thirty minutes at the café, Oikawa reluctant to leave and Suga all but having been adopted by the little black cat in his lap. The waiter seems to notice Oikawa’s lingering looks, and informs them that they have an arrangement with the local shelter and most of the cats in the café are up for adoption. </p><p>Oikawa is ready to take every cat home right then and there but Suga manages to reign him in. “We’ll think about it.” </p><p>“<em>Definitely </em> think about it,” Oikawa reiterates. Suga sees an addition to their family in the near future.  </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the angst is starting to kick in folks. comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :) </p><p>p.s. just as a heads up, I don't have a set update schedule for this fic but the two-week pattern may extend to even three or four weeks as I try to balance my other wips</p><p>otherwise, hmu on <a href="https://twitter.com/beiniiiii">twitter</a> if you want</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 5月1日</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>slight nfsw warning for discussion of sex but no actual sex occurring on screen</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>On the first of May, cold toes against Sugawara’s calves and a pair of lips on his neck rouse him from sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Happy anniversary,” Oikawa rumbles in his ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Remove your feet from my legs or I will remove them for you,” is Suga’s response, eyes still closed. But he’s smiling, and he’ll bet anything that Oikawa is as well. Suga feels the bed shift as Oikawa leans over to press another kiss to his cheek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So cruel Kou-chan, and after I made you breakfast no less.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A rush of gratefulness overwhelms Suga then, for fate; that it’s allowed him to have something that for so long seemed unattainable. Once Suga had come to terms with the fact that he was attracted to men, he’d also resigned himself to a future devoid of romantic love. He’d marry a nice, solid woman, not too pretty but still possessing respectable features, maybe even someone his parents chose for him. They’d have loveless sex with the sole intent of producing a child with a side of torrid affairs, sneaking off to love hotels; his guilt assuaged by the sure knowledge that his wife was doing the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he’s allowed this: a man who won’t stop warming his cold body parts against Suga whom he loves so much he can scarcely articulate it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He and Oikawa met—or remet—on a sunny Tuesday in May, and almost a year later Suga gathered up the courage to ask him out. Therefore May is especially tender and especially sentimental for them. One day was never enough, and so May was and is the month of their love. Suga has a slew of surprises planned and he bets that Oikawa is the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have I gone back in time to the new year?” asks Suga. “I smell o-zoni.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And sekihan, natto, and eggs.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You hate natto.” Oikawa likens the smell to old gym socks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trying to fatten me up? You spoil me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing is ever too much for Kou-chan,” Oikawa declares, certain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Suga wants to say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I haven’t done anything to deserve this; to deserve you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But he knows his insecurity is unproductive. He pushes it down for a later date, unwilling to spoil the good mood he’s woken up in, and extracts himself from Oikawa’s hold to go brush his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once at the table, Suga asks. “Is this all I should expect for today?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa deposited three substantial chunks of pickled radish into Suga’s bowl of rice. “Where’s the fun in spoiling the surprise?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t like surprises.” Suga pushes his food around in his bowl, wishing selfishly that Oikawa had given him less. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You love surprises; it’s uncertainty you don’t like,” Oikawa says. “Don’t you trust me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes it becomes irritating that Oikawa seems to know Suga better than he’s willing to admit to himself, but only sometimes. Mostly he’s just charmed, and smitten, and in awe that he gets to spend his life with someone who reciprocates the sentiment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you still have to ask? You should know the answer by now,” replies Suga. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a fraction of a second Oikawa’s grin falters, slipping into something skirting the edge of heartsick. It corrects itself and he pushes more vegetables onto Suga. “It’s supposed to be sunny today; don’t forget to put on sunscreen.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa’s second surprise is an open air market by the downtown docks, Oikawa in his ridiculous sunhat because he burns worse than Suga and Suga in more tame shorts and sandals. The place is old school: a cobbled menagerie of street food vendors, grocers and young adults peddling their artwork to make ends meet. Rows upon rows of colorful tarps suspended on spindle-like metal legs to provide a bit of shade for the sellers who’ve been out since early morning tide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing has marked prices, save for the ones that the aunties and uncles call out as people walk past to entice them to their stall. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Takoyaki, six pieces for five-hundred yen! Fresh caught salmon, seven-hundred fifty yen a pound! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oikawa trails behind Suga at an unhurried pace as the latter rushes ahead to absorb the market in all it’s patchwork splendor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where should we start?” he asks. “Did you bring any cash? I doubt these places take credit cards. We just ate but the smell of that sweet potato is making me hungry all over again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Look at those ranma, do you think they’re handmade? I want a closer look.” He grabs Oikawa’s hand to pull him towards the ranma stand. Oikawa tilts his head in greeting to the women perched on a stool behind the table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga is careful as he looks over the wooden pieces, fingering the sharp corners and sanded-down curves. Oikawa looks on with mild interest and, presumably, doesn’t see anything he wants. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t this look nice in the genkan? How much are the forty centimeter ones?” Suga asks, holding up the one he has in mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sixty-five hundred yen.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If the ranma are hand-carved then the price isn’t bad; still, it’s enough to make Suga pause and the woman must see his hesitation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you buy two I can knock the price down to forty-seven hundred each.” The fact that she’s willing to go so low tells Suga the actual price is negotiable, opening the door for him and the vendor to go back and forth. She’s determined to make a sale but he’s just as determined to secure a good deal. Oikawa is content to hang back, and hands over the money without a word when Suga and the vendor finally reach an agreement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were a little ruthless, Koushi,” says Oikawa once they’re out of earshot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga beams up at Oikawa. “She shouldn’t have tried to play me. After a closer look I could tell that those renma were mass produced in some factory. Hardly worth sixty-five hundred yen, at least for that size.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you say so.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They do something together almost every day in May. Some of their dates are mundane, when neither of them have the energy to plan a more elaborate date. That following Monday they order takeout from Oikawa’s favorite restaurant and spread it out on the floor in front of the TV. On Tuesday Suga takes Oikawa to a Parisian-style café where they sit in wicker chairs on the sidewalk beneath the egg yolk yellow sun and watch the people go by for hours with the smell of espresso wafting from inside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On Thursday Suga says, “Tooru, let’s go shopping.” Almost none of his clothes fit anymore and belts can only do but so much. He figured that Oikawa would jump at the chance to help him put together a new wardrobe, but like breakfast that weekend, Suga’s suggestion is initially met with the same worried expression. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On Friday Oikawa surprises Suga again by showing up at his work to have lunch together. Suga is in the department breakroom with Fujioka when he hears someone say, “Excuse me, I’m looking for Professor Sugawara.” When was the last time Oikawa had referred to Suga by his family name? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I saw him inside,” the other person responds, sounding dazed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Oikawa strolls into the break room as comfortably as if he’s worked here his whole adult life and scans over the small gathering of professors. The hardness in his face unshutters when his eyes land on Suga; he doesn’t quite smile, but the polite mask melts away. Other than Fujioka, who’s had ample time to build up an immunity to Oikawa, the other professors make a small fuss, whispering to one another while trying and failing not to stare. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga breaks from the loose semicircle to stand in front of Oikawa. “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going to have lunch,” Oikawa says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga runs a tongue over the back of his teeth and resists the urge to scratch at the itch between his shoulder blades where others are staring. “What if I had plans?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fujioka-san was kind enough to confirm that you didn’t,” he replied smoothly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well in that case.” Although Suga finds that he isn’t too upset about it. They turn to leave just as Nishihara happens to walk by. Upon seeing Suga, he stops, then his gaze is drawn to Oikawa.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello Suga. And who is this? I thought I knew most of the artists on campus but I don’t recognize you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe, Suga thinks, if he doesn’t address Nishihara by name, this won’t end with Oikawa getting arrested for aggravated assault. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That hope is dashed when Oikawa—the overprotective jerk—steps sideways to obscure Suga from Nishihara’s view and extends his hand in greeting. “Nishihara Ichiro-san,” he demures, and—what the fuck? Did Oikawa look into Nishihara? “I’m sorry, I’m just </span>
  <em>
    <span>such</span>
  </em>
  <span> a big fan. I’m Oikawa Tooru, Koushi’s roommate.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishihara looks like he doesn’t know what to make of Oikawa but plasters on a similarly polite expression. “In that case, it’s very nice to meet you, Oikawa-san.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa doesn’t stop there. “Your exhibit on permutations of forgotten light and the connections we all share to the natural world at the Museum of Fine Arts last autumn blew me away.” What is he playing at, Suga wonders, buttering up Nishihara like this. “I’m almost embarrassed to ask but, could I get your autograph?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the mention of his own exhibit, Nishihara opens up, deciding Oikawa to be genuine in his flattery. “I might have some old contact sheets from that exposition in my office. How about you take one of those?” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only because Suga knows Oikawa’s animated expression to be contrived that the act unnerves him. Otherwise, he’s careful not to overdo his performance, eyes widening in what appear to be genuine elation. “Really, you’d do that? That would be incredible, thank you so much.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nishihara brushes a hand against Oikawa’s shoulder. “I’m more than happy to do so for a true lover of photography. Should we head to my office?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Suga opens his mouth to protest. “Tooru …” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll meet you out front, okay Koushi?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t get lost,” Nishihara assures. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga hopes that his face expresses just how much he doesn’t like the sound of that. “Yeah, meet you out front.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga waits for five minutes before Oikawa joins him. “Where’s your print?” he asks, edging on snide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm? Oh I guess Nishihara-san forgot to give it to me. Nevermind about him, let’s eat. How has your day been so far?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga never finds out what Oikawa did or said to Nishihara, but every subsequent time the and Nishihara cross paths the photographer goes pale around the edges and does an abrupt about face without saying a single word. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Some of their anniversary dates are carefully thought out and exacting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the second Sunday in May, Suga purchases two tickets to the science museum and they spend the morning in it’s planetarium, cradled in the artificial vastness of the Milkyway galaxy. Oikawa whispers the constellations to Suga and helps trace his fingers along the jagged edges of Ryuu, Ooguma and Koguma. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Come afternoon he lets Oikawa into his paint set. Suga reclines on their couch for the better part of an hour trying to keep still while Oikawa squints back and forth between him and the canvas. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Show me,” Suga prompts once Oikawa declares his work finished. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Far from any realistic imagining of Suga on the couch Oikawa presents him with an incoherent riot of color. There’s no rhyme or reason, evergreens blending into ochre blending into strawberry pink. In some places the paint is smeared on so thick it protrudes into the air, proud and erect as any mountain reaching for the sky. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I decided to go for an abstract interpretation,” Oikawa says. He almost looks insecure or afraid of something—that Suga will hate it, maybe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga walks around the easel and wraps an arm around Oikawa’s shoulder, firm, reassuring. “We should hang it up,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We should?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Absolutely. It has to dry first though. I’d give it two weeks just to be safe.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa apologizes for wasting so much paint. Suga’s fingers find their way into the fringe of hair on Oikawa’s forehead, thoughtful. “You know what my thesis advisor used to tell me? ‘The only paint wasted is paint that stays in the bottle’.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like advice someone who can afford to blow through supplies would give,” says Oikawa. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga laughs. “That’s what I told her. Come on, let’s set this out on the balcony.” </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Some things they don’t even leave the house for. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It won’t fit,” says Oikawa. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It will,” insists Suga, exasperated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It definitely won’t, that thing is way bigger than you or I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>will not</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop being such a big baby, Tooru, I’ve used it plenty of times. Just need a lot of prep. And lube.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Koushi. Darling. Light of my life. Apple of my fucking eye. There is not enough lube in the world to make that dildo fit up my ass. Not all of us are size queens like a certain someone—ow! What, am I wrong?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh fine. What about this?” Suga holds up the prostate massager he ordered last month but has yet to test out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa’s gaze is liquid mercury melting with heat. “Now that, I can get behind.” </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>On the last Saturday in May Suga has one last destination in mind, close enough that they can walk to it from their house. He makes Oikawa change into running sneakers and a pair of athletic shorts, and hopes he doesn’t employ his usual perceptiveness to try to guess where they’re headed. It’s a bit of a gamble on Suga’s part; after the injury that ended Oikawa’s sports career volleyball has been something of a sore subject, like pressing on a bruise that had never quite healed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Suga can see it in his eyes when they watch a match on TV or he happens across an ad with Kageyama in it, a longing as wistful and bittersweet as the remembrance of your first love and subsequent heartbreak. Oikawa is too scared to let himself want it, because that would be admitting that he has regrets about the way his life turned out so far. He loves his job, he loved the research he completed for his dissertation even when it was the source of nearly all of his stress for four years, yet that question still lingers, lying in wait just beneath the surface. An insidious </span>
  <em>
    <span>what if</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Closure is too much for Suga to hope for; after all, it’s one volleyball game at the local recreational center not ten sessions of therapy, but maybe … permission. Permission to properly grieve for the self Oikawa had lost that day eleven years ago and permission to move forward. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa’s confusion when they sign in at the front desk clears when they get close enough to the gymnasium to hear the solid </span>
  <em>
    <span>thwack!</span>
  </em>
  <span> of hands against leather. Voices emanate from the open door calling for the ball or chatting about their weeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For once, Suga has no idea what’s going through Oikawa’s head, his face utterly devoid of emotion. “We can leave…” he says, worried that he’s screwed everything up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Oikawa a long moment to reply. “No, I…It’s just my knee. I can’t play.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa had gone through years of physical therapy after two difficult surgeries, but had since made a full recovery. “The doctor said that you could,” Suga reminded him. “Just not at the professional level. A match or two with some casual players should be fine.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rubs at the leg that had been injured, a subconscious gesture.“What if—what if I…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>What if I’m no good anymore? What if I can’t play? What if it’s exactly the same as that first time, and all of this fear and avoidance has been for nothing?</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga bumps Oikawa’s shoulder with his own—although with his height it’s more like Oikawa’s bicep. “What? What if my team smokes your ass?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It works. Oikawa’s response to the taunt is immediate, scoffing, “As if !You’re going down, Kou-chan. We’re wasting time, let’s warm up.” Head held high, he strides into the gymnasium. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After signing injury waivers provided by the team leader, Suga and Oikawa make quick introductions and start passing with each other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll be on separate teams, of course,” Oikawa said. When he sets, the ball is near silent as it leaves his outstretched fingers in a clean, high arc to Suga. Even after so long as a spectator, the movements still come as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. Suga isn’t as rusty as he imagined he might be but his forearms are quick to sting and redden from the force of the ball. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Suga agrees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa is already scoping out the abilities of the other players, no doubt constructing his ideal team in his head. “Stakes?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga responds without halting his peppering. “Dishes for one week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One month,” Oikawa counters. He switches from passing to hitting, aiming for the upper most part of his own swing by arching his back and waiting for the ball to fall to that height. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Two weeks and that’s the best you’re getting.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s no fun when the stakes aren’t high but okay, two weeks. Any rules?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No jump serves,” says Suga. “No crazy sprawls to save a play.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds fair.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A player in a muscle tank top with a heavy Kansai accent wanders over and introduces himself as Matsumoto. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What positions do y’all play?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re setters,” Suga answers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice! We don’t have many regular setters so our DSes—Hirai-chan and Nakamoto-chan over there—usually take the second ball. ” Matsumoto points out the two women filling their water bottles at the fountain. “Do I …” he squints at Oikawa, thoughtful. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look awfully familiar but I can’t place you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matsumoto looks to be about their age, maybe a few years older. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I get that a lot but no I don’t think so.” Oikawa shrugs. “Just have one of those faces.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Guess so!” Matsumoto’s laugh could trigger a small earthquake. “We’re playing Queens to warm up, c’mon.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga has no grand illusions about his capability as a setter, so he pulls out all the tricks and tactics he remembers from school to snatch up as many points as possible from Oikawa’s team. Their middle has a decent slide which Suga takes advantage of often enough to make the twist of frustration dart across Oikawa’s lips. Suga jump-sets to try to confuse Oikawa’s blockers who take the bait about half the time until they realize that he’s too short to do any real damage with a hard dump. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It helps that Oikawa’s playing isn’t perfect; he misses digs and serves long, and he sets the ball too high for his female outside who, while limber, is still shorter than Oikawa was used to on an all-men’s team. In the two hours of gym time they play seven sets total and Oikawa’s team wins four of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suga has to reign in the urge to stick out his tongue at the smug look in Oikawa’s eyes when their teams shake hands across the net. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y’all are, like, crazy competitive,” Matsumoto says during their cool down stretch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hard not to be with two weeks of dish duty on the line,” Oikawa replies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gloating isn’t a good look on you, Tooru.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait. Oikawa </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tooru</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” says Matsumoto. “Like, 2015-first-draft-pick-to-the-national-team Oikawa Tooru?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ahaha,” he chuckles. “You were a fan?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matsumoto scoots closer, left calf still gripped in his hand. “Dude, totally! You and Miya Atsumu were, like, my favorite setters in the high school circuit! Wow, this is so insane, what’re the odds? I was devastated when you announced your early retirement, may or may not have teared up a little. ” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It wasn’t an easy decision,” Oikawa admits. “But if I continued playing I’d have risked permanent damage to my knees.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Matsumoto nodded along. “I totally get ya. Volleyball’s just a sport, right? Even when it’s your whole world, you gotta move on from the court eventually. There’s more to life than the game, ya know?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oikawa’s gaze drifts over to Suga. “Exactly.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only thing that sucked was never gettin’ to see you and Ushiwaka play together. Woulda been epic!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laughter bursts from Suga, causing Matsumoto to startle as if he’d forgotten that Suga was there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? I say something funny?” he asks, cautious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s nothing, just…” Oikawa’s lips twitch. “Ushiwaka used to tell me that a lot when we were in school. That we’d make a good pair, that is.” After Oikawa indulges Matsumoto’s request for a selfie, he and Suga help take down the net with a promise to come back soon before taking their leave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you have fun?” Suga asks on their walk back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did. Thank you for this, Koushi. I don't even—just, thank you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Always.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Always.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>uhh, I made up the open air market, I'm not sure one such as that exists in downtown osaka but the science museum is real! Ryuu, Ooguma, and Koguma are the japanese names (I think) for the constellations Draco, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor respectively. Renma are wood carvings native to Osaka (again, I think, all this info is coming from google). </p>
<p>I play volleyball irl but I'm from the U.S. so the terms I used may be slightly different. "DS" stands for defensive specialist, who's a player on the court that's also really good at passing and defending but not the libero. "Peppering" is a warm up exercise where two players take turns passing, setting and hitting the ball to each other. </p>
<p>"Queens" is a warm up game where two teams of three people play out a point, whoever wins goes to the far side of the court and becomes the "queen" until they're deposed by another team. I think national teams are usually selected by rounds of audition but I just used draft 'cause it's easier haha, I'm not sure if that's the actual term. </p>
<p>I think that's it. hmu on <a href="https://twitter.com/beiniiiii">twitter</a> if you want</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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